Burn Him Out
by liquid silver
Summary: When you were 11 years old, all relationships were about power. My my. How things change.


Short one shot. Slash. Reluctant obsession. Kids, go away.  
  
***DISCLAIMER***  
I own nothing. I barely even own the "plot", what little of of it there is.  
  
Can't get this taste out of my mouth  
swallow it down  
pretend  
and hold it all in, let it build up  
and build a bomb  
this comforting lie can't last.  
  
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Every now and then, you catch yourself. Watching him. Wondering what makes him so special. Wondering why they fall at his feet, wondering what it is about him that makes them let him get away with murder.  
Nothing. And that's the only answer you come up with.  
Nothing, except that stupid lightning bolt scar, and that's nothing, either. Not his own doing. So what? He got lucky and a curse deflected in just the right way. Boohoo. Voldemort. Raised by filthy Muggles. So sad.  
Your lip curls in disgust. You toy with your fork all through lunch, so lost in thought you don't even notice Pansy's incessant chatter. Usually, it annoys you, and you don't pay attention anyway. But today, You don't even notice. Because the boy two tables over has lived such a tragic life. At least, that's what everyone beleives. He doesn't seem intent on correcting them. He doesn't seem intent on any of the things he should be. Now, though, he's angry. Acting like he hadn't wanted this all along. The fame, the glory, and even the pity. The sad, sympathetic smiles he gets sometimes. Because in his tragedy, no one punishes him. It's like he deserves this for having suffered.  
'Cry me a fucking river, Potter', you think.  
Because in your eyes, he's no better than that Mudblood girl always hanging on him. That she's there only makes him worse. He's got his own fan club, and he can't even pick the right fans. He could have been in Slytherin. He could have been great. You could have been great, together...  
But no. The first day, he turned away from your outstretched hand. You were offering. You don't offer to anyone. And then the great Harry Potter may as well have slapped you in the face. He was the dark to your light. Raven black hair complementing Platinum. Your steel blue complimenting his emerald. And oh.. the power. The lost potential. And he turned away. He fucking turned away. It was like a slap in the face.  
  
When you were eleven years old, you didn't think of boys like that. You didn't think of girls like that, either. When you were eleven years old, all relationships, friendships, were about power. Nothing had to do with love or even the throbbing and aching that thing between your legs would do, sometimes. When you got older, you learned that sex could also be power, as long as you did things right. As long as you didn't do anything stupid, like fall in love.. or even fall deep enough into lust to let it get in the way of the most important thing.  
Power.  
But you find that now, your eyes soften when your gaze rests on him. You hate him. As long as you aren't looking at him. When you look at him, that thing between your legs rises to attention so quickly, so reliably, it frightens even you. Because it's not like that. It's a heady rush, a little puddle forming in the middle of your chest. Sticky sweet. You don't want to fuck him. You want to kiss him. You want to watch his eyes drown in yours. You think you might even want to make love to him. Slowly, not the way it always is. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Or sir. Whichever strikes your fancy, that night. And it scares you even more, the dreams you're beginning to have. Him. Always him. Smiling up at you. His innocence. His light to your dark now.  
You look away. And the disgust is back. The sick nausea for the feeling you didn't even let yourself admit.. but still you feel. Somewhere deep and buried inside of you, the feeling you'll push back down. One day, it's going to explode. You know it. You're too passionate a person to not have it come out, slap you in the face.  
  
But you'll put it off every second you can.  
  
You push your chair away from the table. Maybe a little too abruptly, because now Pansy is staring at you, and so is everyone at your end of the Slytherin table. Your eyes are fixed. Gryffindor. You've got to get the fuck out of here. Now, and not a second later. You storm out of the Great Hall, not even a little flicker of acknowledgement in your concerned housemates' direction. As soon as you pass through the doors, you break into a run. Down long dark hallways, and straight into the Serpant's Den. Into your private, cushy little room. Gasping, panting, you fall onto your bed. Your head is pounding with the rush of blood your body wasn't expecting. And you lay like that, face up, eyes on the ceiling, mind blank, for several minutes.  
  
There's still the unfortunate matter between your legs which won't let up until you give it attention. You get it over with quickly. A few strokes here and there. A little faster than normal, a little harder than normal. Your breath is coming in ragged gasps, and you're jerking around spasmodically. Your mind is resolutely blank. You won't think of him like this. You can't control it in your dreams, maybe, but while you're awake, you can. And since no one else's image comes close, you close it off. You think about nothing for the next 129 seconds. Nothing at all. Until you come. And it feels like you're about to blow the ceiling off when you do, and there's an image of a man with black hair and green eyes and a little scar and thin, sinewy arms burned into the back of your eyelids. And he's got his lips wrapped around all the right places.  
  
Your eyes fly open and you nearly choke. You just had an orgasm over Harry fucking Potter. The world must be coming to an end.  
  
You sigh, resigned, as you dig out the little silvery lighter you keep in the table beside your bed, and you light it, staring at the flame. Like it's symbolic of something. But, there's nothing symbolic about it when you take it and touch it to the sensitive patch of flesh on your inner thighs. Over and over and over again. Blisters start to form. And you smile to yourself, satisfied that the uncontrollable need has finally died down, replaced by pain.  
  
If you can't keep him out, you'll burn him out.  
  
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That was tremendously fun. Sometimes, the rabid bunnies need to come out and play. So I have to let them. Lyrics at the top are No Doubt's "Comforting Lie". Characters and setting belong to JK Rowling. Comments? Questions? Similar obsessions? passiveaddiction@hotmail.com 


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